


lights will guide you home

by orphan_account



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, F/F, Mentioned Verbal Abuse, Nyssa needs a hug, Ra's is a shitty dad in all universes, Sara is more than happy to provide, Scars, Self-Harm, Verbal Abuse, past self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this were a movie, Sara would say something like, what are you doing here? or, you lame romantic. But this isn’t a movie, or a TV show, or a book. It’s real life, where people have real problems and people say real things.</p><p>“You okay, Nyssa?” Sara asks.</p><p>“I’m fine, habbiti,” Nyssa says, voice stiff. Sara knows she isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lights will guide you home

**Author's Note:**

> These two need a reunion, like, yesterday, dammit.

Sara wakes up to the sound of tapping against her window.

At first, she wonders why someone is throwing rocks at her window at–she pokes her head out of her blanket cocoon–4:26 on a Saturday morning. She tucks herself back into her comforter. It’s probably just Tommy mistaking her window for Laurel’s. Nyssa would roll her eyes at such cheesy romanti–

Nyssa.

Sara kicks off her blankets and scrambles over to her window. She waves down at Nyssa–still in her pajamas. That’s a bad sign–before lifting up the panel to avoid swallowing a rock.

If this were a movie, Sara would say something like, _what are you doing here?_ or _you lame romantic_. But this isn’t a movie, or a TV show, or a book. It’s real life, where people have real problems and people say real things.

“You okay, Nyssa?” Sara asks.

“I’m fine, habbiti,” Nyssa says, voice stiff. Sara knows she isn’t. “You wouldn’t mind coming down, would you?”

“‘Course not,” she says. “Be down in a minute, okay?” Nyssa nods and drops the rest of her rocks. Sara slides the window shut, because the inner walls are thin and she knows Laurel would complain about the chill.

She doesn’t waste time changing; only slips on a pair of shoes and a jacket and grabs an extra for Nyssa before she’s sneaking downstairs.

The floorboards creak with age in front of the stairs. She cringes, and thanks God that she has a family of heavy sleepers. She then curses God because Felicity left her door open. Felicity’s been fitful in her slumber ever since the accident a couple months ago, and the downstairs floorboards are even creakier than the upstairs. (Felicity caught her sneaking out, once, and Sara had to blame it on the pain medication. She still feels kind of bad about that.)

Sara treads extra carefully. She feels stupid, walking like she’s a Scooby Doo character, but Quentin Lance doesn’t take kindly to his daughters’ significant others showing up on his doorstep at god-awful hours in the morning, no matter the reason. She passes Felicity’s room without incident, and soon enough she’s out the front door.

Nyssa’s awkwardly hanging out in front of the Lance porch. Her hands are tucked in the pockets of her sweatpants and her are shoulders drawn like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her eyes are bloodshot from unshed tears. Sara’s long ago decided she doesn’t like this look on her.

“Hey,” Sara says, making her way over. Nyssa only attempts to smile in response, and Sara frowns in concern as she pulls the jacket over Nyssa’s shoulders. “How about we sit down, yeah?”

Nyssa nods after a beat. “That sounds wonderful,” she says, and they settle onto the porch steps (instead of the big hanging chair, for some reason).

Sara tucks her legs to her chest. She covers her knees with one arm to act as a pillow and uses the other to hold Nyssa’s hand. “What happened?” she asks.

Nyssa shrugs, staring blankly at nothing. Her hand is loose in Sara’s. “My father returned from his business trip,” she says, “and the first thing he did was wake me to instigate a fight.”

“About what?”

Another shrug. “Everything. My usefulness, my lack there of, my stake in the company, my sexuality, my mother. Just…everything.”

“Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” Sara says, even though she isn’t really one to use such lovey-dovey endearments, but right now, Nyssa needs lovey-dovey. Sara lets go of Nyssa’s hand to tug her closer. She tucks her girlfriend’s head underneath her chin and rubs Nyssa’s back in slow, soothing circles. She presses her lips to Nyssa’s hair.

“He said…” Nyssa shakes her head and bites down on Sara’s shirt. Sara lets her. Nyssa, strong and cold and cruel out in public, curls further in on herself. When she releases Sara’s shirt, she continues. “He said that I’m worthless.”

“You're not worthless,” Sara says immediately, because it’s true. “You’re smart, and strong, and gorgeous, and amazing, and worth every bit of oxygen you breathe.”

That earns her a small, watery chuckle: It’s there for a split second before Nyssa turns sober again. “My father doesn’t think so.”

“That’s because your father’s a fucking loser. The only worthwhile thing he ever did was bring you into the world.” She knocks her knee against Nyssa’s with a grin. That grin slips away when she feels something warm and sticky on the cuff of Nyssa’s sweatpants.

“Habbiti, it’s fine,” Nyssa tries to protest, but Sara’s already bent down to look.

A tiny splotch of red has already bleed through the fabric. Sara tugs the pant sleeve up to reveal the cut; right above the ankle, jagged and uneven, not done by a knife. Images of the scars painting Nyssa’s hips and thighs flash through her mind, and she asks, “What happened?”

“There’s a splinter on the front doorframe,” Nyssa says. “I cut myself in my haste to leave.”

Sara traces her finger over the skin around it. “Accident or on purpose?”

“Accident.”

“Is that the truth?”

Nyssa doesn’t respond. Instead, she drops her head and bites down on her bottom lip.

“ _Nyssa_.” She winces for this girl in front of her; broken so many times over she doesn’t believe there’s a point in fixing herself again. She reaches up to thumb the flesh out of her mouth.

“I apologize.”

“You shouldn’t.” When Nyssa doesn’t look at her, Sara grabs her face and has her meet her eyes. She runs her thumb over her cheek soothingly. “Hey. You have nothing to be sorry about, okay? Nothing. Especially not to me.”

Nyssa nods slowly. “I take back the apology.”

Sara gives her a smile and pats her cheek. “Good.” She kisses her. “I love you.”

“And I you.”

Another kiss, this time longer, before Sara pulls away and stands up. “C’mon,” Sara says, offering Nyssa a hand. Nyssa grabs it, and Sara tugs her up. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

She takes her hand back. “You do not have to–”

“No, I don’t,” Sara agrees. “But I want to. And you’re worthy of somebody’s time and help.” Nyssa opens her mouth to, but ultimately doesn’t protest. Sara takes her hand again and leads her into the house.

As they tiptoe past Felicity’s room, Sara thinks of other times she’s snuck someone into the house; random guys, too drunk off her ass to remember any names and too hungover in the morning to remember if they’d used a condom. Countless times sneaking them out the window. It was all just fun (except for the slurs and curses thrown at her at school, and the sister who didn’t talk to her, and the disappointed parents, and the times she was late on her period, and her so-called friends who turned their backs on her).

They sneak into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them before they flip on the light. Sara wets a washcloth and grabs the bandages, while Nyssa–at Sara’s request–pulls herself onto the counter. Sara gets to work cleaning the cut. Nyssa doesn’t even flinch when she wipes the blood off. Sara checks for any left-over splinters, pulls them out, washes the cut again, and applies the bandages.

The only sounds made are Sara’s random “Oh, Nyssa,”’s, echoing in the tiny room.

Sara stands and pats Nyssa’s hip. “There. All done.”

“Thank you,” Nyssa says, automatically leaning into the hand Sara rests on her cheek.

She pecks her on the lips again, and–because, while she trusts Nyssa with her life, she doesn’t trust Nyssa with her own–she checks Nyssa’s hips and thighs for any new cuts. When she doesn’t find any, she trails her fingers over the scars; thin and fine and lots of them. Her chests aches as she thinks of the terrible things that drove Nyssa to take a knife to herself, over and over and over again.

“People should be gentle with themselves,” Sara says. Her fingers follow a particular mark that’s longer than the others, almost stretching to her abdomen. “Especially people like you.”

“It is…difficult.”

“I know.” She knows that Nyssa suffers from depression and anxiety and God knows what else. She knows that her father refuses to get Nyssa medication, or even a proper diagnosis. She knows that Nyssa does try. “I know.”

They stay like that for a while; the silence thick, but not in between them. Nyssa kisses her, quick and shallow, once, twice, a third time. Quick and shallow is all that Nyssa is up to right now, and Sara doesn’t push her.

She pecks her lips, then kisses her forehead. “You tired?”

“Quite,” Nyssa says, “but I do not wish to return to my house.”

“Who said anything about your house?” Sara kisses her one last time before moving so that Nyssa can get off the counter. So soon as she’s down, Sara intertwines their fingers. “You can sleep here tonight,” she says, already leading her out of the bathroom.

“You are not afraid of what your father would do?”

“He’ll understand. Trust me.”

Nyssa puts up no more resistance to being led to Sara’s room. Sara tries to lower the level of her father’s impending flip-out by leaving the door a crack open. Removing herself from Nyssa, Sara goes over to her bed and unravel her blanket cocoon, shedding her shoes and jacket on the way there. “You could try to find a pair of pajama pants, if you wanted.”

Nyssa shakes her head, says, “I am fine, habbiti. Thank you," and then takes off her own jacket and shoes.

Sara finishes tugging the blankets apart. She plops herself down and opens her arms in an invitation. “C’mere.”

Nyssa hesitates for a split second before climbing onto the bed. As soon as she’s in reach, Sara wraps her arms around Nyssa’s waist and tugs her down.

“I do not _need_ coddling,” Nyssa says.

“Yes, you do,” Sara replies. It takes a moment for her to get in a comfortable position for both of them (Nyssa, being taller, is usually the big spoon) and once she does, she snuggles against her girlfriend with a content sigh. “You need all the cuddles. All of them. And I’m more than happy to provide.”

She can practically hear the eye roll and small smile as Nyssa kicks her lightly. “You are incredibly immature. I hope you know that.”

“You love me anyway,” Sara says, sticking her tongue out though Nyssa can’t see her.

“I do.”

“I love you, too.” Sara buries her face in Nyssa’s hair. “So much. I hope _you_ know _that_.”

Nyssa doesn’t say anything for a moment. She curls further in on herself. “You will be here in the morning, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Sara says immediately.

“Swear it?”

Sara knows that Nyssa doesn’t have anyone stable in her life. She has a father constantly ducking in and out of her life; estranged half-siblings she talks to maybe once every three years; a mother who hung herself and left Nyssa on her own; so-called “friends” that just use her for her money. Nyssa’s a good person who deserves someone who loves her.

Sara fumbles for Nyssa’s hand in the dark, tangling their fingers together. She rests their hands on Nyssa’s chest, where they can both feel her heart beating, strong and steady and alive. Her own chest tightens. “Promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! Constructive criticism is welcome, and reviews and kudos give me the fuel to write more things like this!


End file.
